


Outside the Box

by Nny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:45:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Yes. Because </i>that's<i> the unlikely part."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside the Box

"You're thinking inside the box," Sherlock called, cantering down the escalator. "Or rather," he continued once John had reached his side, almost tripping over an excessively pierced busker on his way, "inside the Tube map, which is far more offensively flawed."

"Flawed?"

Sherlock looked both ways before apparently coming to a decision, diving onto the Southbound platform. John quickly lost sight of him in the crowd of exhausted commuters; reasoning that the logical next step was to get on the train, he had almost made it into the carriage when he was rudely hauled out again by the collar.

"Not that way," Sherlock said, mischief bright on his face, and gestured toward the back of the train. An apprehensive weight settled into John's stomach, rearranging the furniture and making itself at home.

"Please tell me you're not suggesting - " John said, as the train slowly drew away.

"Next train's not for a good ten minutes," Sherlock answered cheerfully, "there's a better than decent chance we won't be killed at all."

"Better than decent," John repeated. "Oh, well that's all right, then."

"Knew you'd see things my way."

John had never figured out if Sherlock was oblivious to sarcasm deliberately or not. Probably. It'd be just like him.

Sherlock sent him a frankly insane grin and sat down on the edge of the platform, scooting forward until he could lower himself onto the tracks.

"You're not serious," John said flatly.

"Nine minutes!" Sherlock called back, from where he had already made some progress into the mouth of the tunnel. He looked back over his shoulder, face extraordinarily pale against the darkness. "You know, all your hesitation is doing is greatly increasing my chances of a horrible death."

"Oh don't you - " John said, scrambling awkwardly over the edge of the platform and twisting his knee, rather, on landing - "don't lay that on me, dammit."

"Excellent." Sherlock's clapped hands echoed down the tunnel ahead of them, his demeanour exactly as if John hadn't spoken at all, and he strode off into the darkness as though there'd never been any question he'd follow. "Oh, avoid that rail, would you? I'd hate to have to go back to my skull."

"If I was still using my cane," John said meditatively, "I'd probably be beating you to death at this point."

 

*

 

John had never held with those watches with hands that glowed in the dark. What sort of ridiculous James Bond fantasy, he'd always thought, would require that type of validation? He'd dismissed them as rich boys' toys and stuck to the faithful clunker Harry'd bought him for a birthday, once, in the days when the fallings out weren't quite so epic.

He was beginning to wish he'd updated it now, though, when something in the back of his throat was tasting like eight and a half minutes and counting, and every one of the seconds counted was trickling coldly down his spine.

"Sherlock?"

"John."

The voice was closer than he'd thought. He'd let go of Sherlock's coat once it'd been obvious that their strides just didn't match at all, relying afterward on the sound of Sherlock's footsteps and the rough cold bricks against his fingers to ensure he didn't misstep. It was oddly reassuring to think he could reach out and touch him, if he wanted.

"Did you have a plan for this point? Out of interest?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, sounding supremely confident even now. "It'd be foolish to come down here without one."

"So...?"

"So the plan rather depended on being on the other side of the tunnel by now."

"Right," said John. "Of course." He considered mentioning the way the wall seemed to be trembling slightly against his fingers, but he was pretty convinced that Sherlock would have noticed it.

"You're not going to - berate me?" Sherlock's voice, divorced from smirks and eye-rolling and the particular impertinent scruff of his hair, was strangely tentative coming out of the darkness.

"You're an idiot," John said without much rancour. "It was necessary, of course?"

"Oh, of course," Sherlock said. "I'm certain a young lady's life depends - " the barest hesitation - "depended on it."

"Well then," John said. "It wasn't like there was a choice." He shrugged, unseen in the darkness. "Elementary."

"My dear Watson - " Sherlock began, but whatever he was going to say was lost in the rushing clatter of an oncoming train. John only had a moment to wonder at the lack of Sherlock's lanky silhouette against the growing headlights before his collar was seized and he was pulled backwards into darkness.

 

*

 

"Ow," John said, and shifted on something that clinked.

"No." Sherlock's voice came from over to the left of him, and for reasons he couldn't quite remember the rush of relief was almost too strong to be contained. "No, I think the response you're looking for is 'thank you for saving my life.'"

"Ow," John said again, and he lifted a shaking hand to his head, which was - yes, tacky with drying blood. Excellent.

"Thank _you_?" an unfamiliar voice interrupted. "My dear boy, you think you could have brought him to this place alone?"

The voice was huge and old and vast, like how a cathedral would sound if it had a voice and a sense of humour, with an edge to it that hinted at a thousand year distaste for psalms. John opened his eyes - just to be sure he _wasn't_ being spoken to by something with buttresses, his head wasn't feeling quite right - and then he shut them again.

"Er, Sherlock?" he asked faintly.

"John."

"You know that maxim of yours?"

"Which one in particular?"

"That one about whatever remains, however improbable - "

" - must be the truth." Something clinked over to the left; John liked to think that Sherlock was shifting his weight uncomfortably. "What of it?"

"It's bollocks."

"Ah."

John opened his eyes again, one at a time, as though the right one might see something different entirely and let the left one know it was safe. No such luck.

"That's a dragon, Sherlock."

"Yes," said Sherlock, looking more than a little abashed. "And dragons - "

"Are impossible. Yep."

"Only highly improbable, I'm afraid," said the dragon, in its amused-architecture voice. "Not to mention rather rare."

"No," Sherlock corrected - rather politely, considering - "I'm afraid you are impossible. The size your wings would have to be to make any sort of flight logical - "

"Physics is a new invention," the dragon said dryly. "I am a creature of the old religion."

"...you brought us down here to _convert_ us?" John asked, a little hysterically. "Didn't those Mormons spread the word about Sherlock?"

"No." The dragon was laughing at him, John could tell.

"I shall have to try harder next time," Sherlock said thoughtfully.

"No this is not an intervention," the dragon corrected. "I saved your lives because - there's a certain morphic resonance about you that fits into a shape I'm familiar with," he finished eventually.

"Morphic resonance," Sherlock said flatly.

"I was expecting someone rather different," the dragon said, a little petulantly. "I had a speech."

"How did it go?" John asked curiously.

"Well it began 'a great destiny awaits you, young warlock,'" the dragon answered.

"No," John said. "It's _Watson_."

"Nothing awaits _me_ ," Sherlock put in, offended. "I _am_ the great destiny."

"It really is quite uncanny," the dragon said, apparently to himself. "It's no wonder I got confused."

"Well," Sherlock said, "we must be getting on. A woman's life is at stake. Can we cut through to the British Museum stop from here?"

"British Museum - there's no British Museum underground station," John protested.

"Yes," said the dragon. "Because _that's_ the unlikely part."


End file.
